The Tulip of Sinai

All being is a martyr to His whim, All life is graven with the need of Him:

Seest thou not the Sun, that flames the Sky Has left the scar of Worship on Dawn’s rim?

My heart is bright with burning inwardly, Mine eye weeps blood, yet all the world does see;

Let him still less Life’s mystery attain Who says that Love is but insanity!

Love gives the garden the soft breeze of May, Love lights the star-buds in the meadow gay,

The ray of passion plunges through the deep, Love gives the fishes sight to see the way.

Love reckoneth the price of eagles cheap, And giveth pheasants to the falcons’ grip;

Our hearts look carefully to their defence, But suddenly, out of ambush, Love doth leap.

’Tis Love that paints the tulip petals’ hue, ’Tis Love that stirs the spirit’s bitter rue;

If thou couldst cleave this carrion of clay, Thou shalt behold, within, Love’s bloodshed too.

Not every soul of Love hath capital, Not every spirit respondeth to Love’s call;

The tulip flowereth with a branded breast, The ruby’s heart hath not a spark at all.

A spent scent in the garden I suspire, I know not what I seek, what I require,

But be my passion satisfied, or no, Yet here I burn, a martyr to desire.

The world is clay; our hearts its harvest be; Yet is this drop of blood its mystery;

Surely our sight is double, or the world Of every man is in his heart to see.

The nightingale said to the gardener at dawn: ‘Only the tree of sorrow can take root in this soil:

The wild thorn reaches a ripe age, But the rose dies when it is still young’.

This world of ours, where Loss is born with Gain And Dissolution is with Being twain,

Our heart will not endure it, soon or late: Make new the old, and build it up again !

To the voice of love Adam is music; He reveals secrets, but he is a secret himself

God created the world, but Adam made it better— Adam, perhaps, is God’s co-worker.

I do not seek the beginning or the end; I am full of mystery and seek the realm of mysteries.

Even if the face of truth were unveiled, I would still seek the same ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’.

How long, my heart, will you be as foolish as the moth? How long will you be unlike a man’s heart?

just for once let your own fire consume you– How long will you fly round the fire of others?

Build, with your handful of dust, A body stronger than a rock fortress,

and inside this body let there be a heart that feels sorrow –Like a stream flowing by a mountain.

Of water and of clay a figure fine God wrought, a world than Eden more divine,

And still the saki fashioned with his flame Another world out of this dust of mine.

On the Day of Resurrection the Brahmin said to God: ‘The light of life was like a brilliant spark;

But, if you don’t mind, I will say this to you: The idol lasted longer than man’.

Swift-paced thou hast departed, star of dawn! Perchance disgusted that we slumbered on

It was through ignorance I lost the way— Wakeful thou earnest, wakeful thou art gone.

The tavern were exempt of turbulence, No spark illumed our clay’s indifference;

Love had not been, nor all the alarm of Love, If heart possessed the mind’s intelligence.

O new-fledged spirit proudly hovering! God made thee all delight upon the wing;

’Tis fleshly passion checks our sluggard flight, While thou ecstatic unto Heaven dost spring.

What joy comes with existence, dear Lord! The heart of every atom yearns for life:

As the rose-bud cracks open the branch, It smiles with the love of life!

I have heard that in pre‐existence the moth said: ‘Grant me just a moment’s radiance in my life.

You may scatter my ashes at dawn, But grant me one night of passion and fire’.

Muslims ! I have a word within my heart More radiant than the soul of Gabriel:

I keep it hidden from the Sons of Fire, It is a secret Abraham knew well.

O heart, my heart, unto His street thou’rt gone! O heart, my heart, thou leavest me alone;

Each instant thou createst new desires: O heart, hast thou naught other to be done?

Thou reachest to the bosom of a star: Yet of thyself thou art all unaware:

Grain-like, upon thyself open an eye, And thou shalt rise from earth a sapling fair.

How sweet a birdsong on the air was borne Within the leafy garden, at the dawn

Give out whatever in thy heart thou hast— Carol or make lament, or sigh, or mourn!

If thou wilt take from me the lesson of life, I’ll tell thee a close-guarded mystery:

Having no soul in body, thou must die; Thou shalt not die, be there a soul in thee.

O hush your fable of the candle-sprite, The tale of its burning grates upon the ear:

That moth alone I recognize as such That labours fiercely and blazes with good cheer.

The draught that makes thee stranger to thyself, Of that delightful juice I have no part;

Then seek no other goods in my bazaar, For, like the rose, I have a bleeding heart.

Walk in my garden, and thou’lt find but loss, Except thy soul be martyred to the Quest;

I shew what flows within the rose’s veins, No magic scents and hues my Spring possessed.

Forth from this world of how and wherefore flee, This maelstrom of our be and not to be!

Let selfhood be the tenant of thy flesh, And build, like Abraham, a sanctuary.

I do not know the birds in the garden, On the branch where my nest is built I sing alone.

If you are weak of heart, stay away from me, For my song drips blood.

Dear Lord, what sweet commotion fills the world! Thou hast made all drunken—with a single bowl;

Thou gavest glance communion with glance, But partest heart from heart, and soul from soul

Alexander gave Khizr some good advice: ‘Be part of the commotion of land and sea.

You are watching this battle from the side of the field; Go and die in action, and then you will be truly immortal.

Dust is the throne of Kay, the crown of Jam, Church, temple, dust the Shrine of Abraham;

I do not know what essence is in me— I gaze beyond the skies, yet dust I am!

If there were set within thy hand of dust A heart, a hundred fragments of warm blood,

And of spring’s clouds if thou couldst learn to ween Tulips shall blossom from thy sorrow’s flood.

Each breath new images are being cast, Not in one form finds Life stability;

If thy today reflects thy yesterday, No vital spark within thy dust can be.

Whene’er the joy of music brings me forth The vast assembly rages with my fire,

But when I would a little be alone Within my heart I lose the world entire.

Enquirest thou, what is this heart of thine? The heart was born, when fire consumed the brain:

The joy of agitation formed the heart, And when this ceased, it turned to clay again.

“The eye cannot attain Him,” said the mind: Yet Yearning’s glance trembles in hope arid fear.

It grows not old, the tale of Sinai, And every heart yet whispers Moses’ prayer.

Cathedral, temple, mosque, or monastery, Naught hast thou made, this hand of dust apart:

Only the heart can save from alien rule, And thou, O fool, thou hast not found a heart.

Not in these bowers have I bound my heart, But fare on free from this imprisonment:

Awhile I tarried, like the breath of dawn, And, gave the roses fragrance as I went.

This youthful wine I poured into the cup, Revives the aged toper near to die,

For, like the ancient Magians, this wine I borrowed from the Saki’s languorous eye.

His wine hath made my sherd the Cup of Jam And hid the Ocean in the drop I am:

My intellect had burnt an idol-house; Love made of it the Shrine of Abraham.

The mind is past’s and present’s prisoner And tends the idols of the eye and ear;

It has an image hidden in its sleeve— The Brahman’s son the girdle too shall wear.

In each man’s head an intellect is set: My flesh, like others’, is of clay and blood;

But in this flesh there dwells a spaceless thought— I only have this secret understood.

You went to Sinai, begging to have a view; Your soul is a stranger to itself.

Set out in search of man; God Himself is searching for him.

Speak this my message unto Gabriel: “My body was not made with light aglow;

Yet see the fervour of us sons of earth, This joy in grief no Child of Light can know !”

Shall knowledge fall the Phoenix in the net? Be less assured: let doubt imprison thee.

Wouldst work? Then let thy faith be more mature: One be thou seeking, One behold, One be!

Mind wove the veils that cover up Thy face, And ah! mine eyes thirst upon Thee to gaze.

Thought with desire is all the while at war— What tumult in the poor heart Thou dost raise!

Thy heart quivereth at the thought of death. Pale as a lime in terror thou dost lie:

Fear not; take thou a selfhood more mature, Which grasping, after death thou shalt not die.

Why ask, what links my body and my soul? I fall not in the snare of How, How Long:

Awhile my breath is choked, but when I rise Clear of the reed’s embrace, I am a song.

Thus spake the wise preceptor unto me: “Thy every day the morrow’s message is:

Preserve thy heart from the unheeding fair— No footmark tread its sanctuary but His.”

Why ask of Razi what the Book denotes? Behold, its best interpreter I am:

Mind lights a flame, heart burns—thus comprehend The tale of Nimrod and of Abraham.

Whether I am, or not, I hold my peace— To say “I am“ were self idolatry:

Who is the singer, then, and whose the song That cries “I am” within the heart of me?

Tell thou for me that poet of bright words: Thou tulip flame, what profit does it bring?

Thou meltest not thyself with such a fire, No lightest up the night of sorrowing.”

I do not know thy Ugly and thy Fair: Thou takest Gain and Loss to measure by.

I am the loneliest in this company— I view the vast world with another eye.

Perchance, grave minister, thou knowest not Love too shall have its Judgment after death,

But in that Hall nor Book nor Balance is, Nor sin, nor infidelity, nor faith.

The water drop, when it is self illumed, Amidst a hundred as one pearl shall be:

Then at this feast of choristers so live To take their garden for an oratory.

Ye men of learning, I am in a maze, The mind this meaning cannot understand:

How in a hand of Dust there beats a heart Wherein gazelles of Fancy rove the land.

Don’t arrange a party on the shore, For there the song of life is gentle and soft.

Roll with the ocean and contend with its waves: Struggle and combat give eternal life.

My entire being is a meaning sealed, I cannot abide the looks of word‐spinners

I cannot be called free or pre determined Because I am living clay, and for ever changing!

Speak not about the Purpose of this life: Thou hast not sight to see its blandishments.

I have such joy in travelling the road, Except the stony way, no stage I sense.

If you were merely to glance at a piece of rock, It would turn into a jewel if you so desired.

Slave of gold, don’t measure yourself by gold– It was your glance that turned it into gold.

Stranger it was, nor faithfulness did know, Its gaze was restless, searching to and fro:

When it beheld Him, from my breast it flew— I knew not that His hand had taught it so.

Speak not of Love, and of Love’s wizardry: Whatever shape thou wilt, he doth descend:

Within the breast he is a spark, no more, But on the tongue a tale without an end.

Sweet newborn bud, why art thou so forlorn? What seekest thou within this garden fair?

For here is dew, a river, song at morn, Birds in the grass, red roses, summer air.

One day a withered rose thus spoke to me: “Our manifesting is a spark swift blown.”

My heart is anguished for the Artist’s pain, The painting of His brush fadeth so soon!

Our infinite world—of old Time’s ocean swallows it up.

Look once in thy heart, and behold Time’s ocean sunk in a cup.

My talk is with the songsters of the glade; The tongue of tongueless rosebuds I was made;

When I am dead, O cast my dust on air— Attending roses is my only trade.

This vale of roses, is it as it seems? What makes the tulip’s fiery heart to glow?

A sea of colours is the mead we view: How nightingales behold it, who can know?

I am a circling planet, Thou my sun, The light that bathes me by Thy glance is thrown:

Far from Thy bosom I imperfect am, Thou art the Book, one chapter I alone.

Sweet is His image in my sight to stay, Sweeter His love, my life to steal away;

It was a subtle teacher taught me this— Sweeter than lodging is the winding way.

A girdled infidel, this brain of mine, It worships idols of its own design;

Regard my heart, weeping for Passion’s grief— What is to thee my way, my Faith divine?

The free paced fir His bondslave was before, Fire in the rose’s cheek His wine did pour;

Sun, moon and stars His sanctuary are, The heart of Adam, His unopened door.

A hundred worlds stretched star to farthest star. Where’er the mind soared, there the heavens are

But when I looked within upon my self, I saw a margin infinitely far.

Set not the chain of Fate upon thy foot; There is a way beyond this rolling sphere;

If thou believest not, rise up, and find Thy foot uplifted leapeth in the air.

Seek not my dawn and even in a sun That ere my rising shone a many year.

Your plectrum fills the instrument of the soul with tunes. How can You be in the soul and outside it as well?

Why should I worry? With You, I am aflame; without You I die. But my Unique One, how do You manage without me?

The heaved breath is a beaker of His sea, He lips our reed, and plays our melody;

We grow as grass by an eternal stream, His dew is in our vein and artery.

There is one pain that tortureth Thy breast: Thou madest this world of colours and of scents

Why does it pain Thee else my fearless love, Who didst create this mighty turbulence?

Whom seekest thou? What fever fills thy mind? ’Tis He is patent—thou the veil behind:

Search after Him, and but thyself thou’lt see, Search after self and naught but Him thou’lt find.

Leave childishness, and learn a better lore; Abandon race, if thee a Muslim bore;

If of his colour, blood, and veins and skin The Arab boasts—an Arab he no more!

We are not Afghans, Turks or Tartars: Offspring of the garden, we grew from the same bough.

Distinctions of colour and scent are forbidden to us, For we are products of a new spring.

There is a world concealed within my breast, Heart in my dust, by passion’s grief possest,

And of the Wine that first lit up the soul One drop within my pitcher yet doth rest.

My heart! My heart! My heart! My ocean, my boat, my shore!

Did you fall like dew on my dusty being, Or did you sprout like a bud out of my soil?

What maketh Foul and Fair, how shall I say? Tongue trembleth, such a riddle to declare:

Without the stem, thou seest rose and thorn; Within, nor rose nor thorn is patent there.

What man in secret is not sorrowful, He hath a body, but he hath no soul:

Desirest thou a spirit? Then pursue The fire and fever that shall never cool.

O ask not what I am, or whence came I: ’Tis self involvement I am living by:

Within this sea I am a restless wave, And when I am no more involved, I die.

With all Thy glory, Thou the veil dost wear. The passion of our gaze Thou canst not bear,

Thou runnest in our blood like potent wine, But ah! how strange Thou comest, and too rare.

Hug not the rest house; on the roadway run: Keep bright the vision, as the moon and sun;

The goods of mind and Faith to others give, But guard Love’s sorrow that thy heart hath won.

Come, Love, thou heart’s most secret whispering, Come, thou our sowing and our harvesting;

These earthly spirits are too aged grown— Out of our clay another Adam bring!

Speech bringeth pain and grief— so best it were; This long lament to me is lovelier;

The joy I have not Alexander knew— Better than Jamshid’s realm a slow, sweet air.

I have no swift paced steed to ride upon, I am no courtier of a monarch’s son;

This, friend, for me is happiness enough That, when I dug my heart—a ruby shone!

Wouldst thou the perfect life attain? Then learn On self alone to fix the opened eye;

The world to swallow in a single draught; To break the spell it is encompassed by.